


This is (Not) the End

by wrothmothking



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: 5+1 Things, Default Hawke (Dragon Age), Domesticity, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Mutual Pining, casual nudity, quiet moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29509464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrothmothking/pseuds/wrothmothking
Summary: Varric's long-accustomed to the idea of dying alone; he can only be thankful it was not so for his wife. / Or: 5 times Varric wakes up with Hawke, and 1 time he doesn't.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Varric Tethras
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10
Collections: Hightown Funk 2020





	This is (Not) the End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tigereyes45](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigereyes45/gifts).



1.

Hawke is beautiful.

Of course she is; Varric'd heard gossip of a lady—for she had aristocratic features—with fair skin and dark hair, trickster spirit and generous heart and dazzling magic not even a templar could stand against, months prior to their first meeting—even as an errand girl, Hawke made noise. Rocked tables. To him, beauty was the least interesting detail of her myth. And that still holds true, but...

There is a topless human woman glued to his chest, hand tangled in his plunging neckline. Drool wets the sensitive skin of his throat. He can't presently see her face, but his arm is wrapped around her tapered waist, and under his palm lies a familiar scar: seven inches, and thankfully thin—the Arishok'd merely clipped her. He remembers watching it happen, his shaking hands hidden in his coat, resting on hidden throwing knives. Daisy clinging to him, as much for his comfort as her own. Fenris's gritted jaw. Isabela's guilty, fearful wonder.

Hawke, failing a dodge. Going down. He'd tensed to intervene, but her hound saved her life for him—meaning no large(r) altercation with the qunari. He hates that she fought alone.

She shudders. Varric stops tracing her scar, tapping her hip as though impatient.

“Ugh,” Hawke groans into his skin, “I'm going to set Aveline _on fire_.”

“It'll at least be a change of pace,” Varric drawls, sarcastic. Still sleep-drunk, he chuckles, too, and massages her temple for her. Then shivers. The moment possesses a tangible intimacy he's long been shy of; best friends weren't less capable than lovers of it, but he's a romantic and he keeps shiny company.

“Fine. I'll ice her and Isabela in a room together overnight.”

Hawke stretches—curses. She rolls to her back, and presses a hand to the horrible, glossy burns criss-crossing her arm knuckle to elbow. Varric averts his gaze from her heaving breasts as the exertion warms her overmuch, reserves still drained from yesterday's clusterfuck. By matter of misfortune, Aveline, through taunting bandits off Daisy, accidentally challenged a high dragon. _A high dragon_. Hawke knows healing, yes, but she's not the master Anders is—her talents lie in charming destruction—and it had been all on her to keep their squishy party on their feet. When they'd parted for the night, Aveline's stubborn leg was continuing to act injured despite Hawke's repeated attentions.

Her movement rouses the hound at their feet. Hawke levies herself up with the headboard, folding her legs under her feet. The mutt shuffles up the bed, and she reaches out-

And Dog ignores her entirely, dropping on Varric. Hard. He absolutely does not squeak like a toy.

“Hey! C'mon, you're heavy! Get on the human!”

Dog cares not for his logic. Clearly a living two hundred-fifty-pound mass belongs loundged from sternum to passed his toes. Guess he's staying in a while, 'cause, despite his lungs having to work harder, Varric doesn't have the heart to shoo Dog off. He cries like a newborn.

Hawke has zero sympathy for his predicament, scowling playfully at the traitorous beast suffocating her best friend—the unofficial lieutenant of their ragtag crew.

“Can't blame him. You, my friend, make an awesome teddy bear.” So said, she pets the hair peeking out his v-neck, Dog nuzzling her fingers greedily.

“I think I'll have respiratory problems for the rest of my life, but glad to be of service.”

“Your sacrifice shall be forever honored by the Hawke-Amell estate.”

“M'lady.”

Uncaring of the open (and trapped) window, Hawke rises, loose, silky trousers hanging dangerously low on her hips.

Varric swallows, shifting anxiously like an embarrassed virgin as he's given the full picture of Hawke's uncovered bosom: the supple curves, the pouch of ample belly fat, the muscles of labor. And, of course, boobs the size of grapefruit dotted with nipples the color of rose petals. (Once a poet...) Rationally, he knows he should think nothing of seeing her like this, but the newness of her casual nudity has him wrong-footed; damn cheat's never lost more than her cloak in their games. He'd be annoyed if he wasn't busy being impressed by her managing it with Isabela and himself at the table. He assures himself the differing circumstances account perfectly well for the uniqueness of his reaction to Hawke. (This dismissal fails to convince the sharp corners of his mind, but Varric is well-used to burying pieces of himself to honor old promises.)

Hawke stretches, again, this time without pain, and Varric relaxes. He's grateful she can be comfortable like this with him—and, of course, that she's chosen to be.

A moment of quiet contentment passes. Varric pets Dog, nearly falling asleep, blanketed in his heat and lulled to a boneless state by the rhythm of his heart. Hawke gathers her things in a pile on his chair, putting up his own things that have mysteriously wound up cluttering the floor. He hadn't realized she was so familiar with the place.

“You don't have to clean for me.”

Hawke blinks, seemingly caught off-guard by his voice. “Hm? Oh. Sorry, big sister habit.”

A knock at the door announces the customary arrival of his morning coffee. Dog continues not to budge. Aren't dogs supposed to greet guests?

Hawke answers the door, near scaring the piss out of their poor server, Marten. Good lad. Terminally shy, but the only decent cook to've been employed at the Hanged Man in over a decade. Shame he'd taken to delivering to Varric.

But he needn't worry for the boy. Hawke has him relaxed as a tiger in a stream in half a sentence.

She then orders a veritable feast of pancakes, crepes, sausages, and hashbrowns. And more coffee. The door closes between one lazy blink and the next.

Varric snorts, complaining not as she helps herself to his cup. Instead, he takes note of the pleased hum, the bliss shuttering her eyes, the cute little wiggle as the hot liquid warms her from the inside. Good to know she likes her coffee the same. It feels like something he should know already, and, too, like it's something he should be gratified for learning today. They seldom stumble outside their stomping grounds; they seldom make camp, and when they do, Hawke's generally the last to bed and the last to rise, helping herself to whatever's left as they adventure forth.

Hawke settles back on the bed with a bounce. When she bends forth to nuzzle Dog, she stops next to cuddle into Varric's hair with a happy sigh. Teasingly, of course.

  
  


2.

Varric closed his eyes to a home—a _world_ —on fire, and he opens them to a face lined with stress despite the woman wearing it being deeply unconscious. Couldn't have one night of grace before the nightmares started, huh?

Well. Hawke has ample pickings, regarding trauma.

Even so, Varric has to stifle the urge to confront Blondie while the dawning light can afford them some privacy. He sure as hell didn't help anything. It's madness that they fled the city with him, if only temporarily.

But Blondie wouldn't leave unless dragged, and Varric, though angry as a charging druffalo, doesn't want him dead.

Hawke rolls closer, half out of her sleeping roll. Her leg kicks out, draping over Varric's midsection; he resigns himself to a longer stay in their tent.

“I hate Meredith,” Hawke mumbles. Varric's mind nearly corrects the tense, but though that wretched woman's life has ended, she's forever due enmity.

“Yeah, me too.”

She echoes his sigh, arms curling into her chest.

Her eyes still closed, she continues to speak: “Where are we taking him?”

Varric shrugs, unseen yet felt. “Nowhere's safe.”

“Nowhere's ever safe.”

He chuckles, humorless. “I hear that.”

His fingers drum his belly. “Rebel mages, the Avvar, Dalish clans, Orzammar...”

“Those are, uh, certainly options. Problem one: the 'rebels' have Chantry sympathizers among them, and more who would disagree with Anders's 'extremist' methods. Problem two: the only Dalish clan we know exiled Merrill who may be a blood mage, but is also made entirely of sunshine. Problem three: the Avvar have no reason _not_ to shoot us on sight, which, _good for them_ , honestly. Oh, and Orzammar's already risking Exalted March since their first and only chantry got burned down—I can't trust all your contacts there to keep this secret down.”

“Aaaand the March could happen anyway...”

Hawke nods, shooting up with such sudden energy Varric near flinches. Her legs fold under her, her arms cross her chest, and her face shifts into its most intense thinking expression: lips pulled into a dour frown, brows furrowed, gaze unfocused, nostrils flared.

“You would've made a good businessman, Hawke,” Varric compliments, rising to sit beside her, knees brushing knees.

It earns him an uncertain half-smile and a gentle shove. Yet cautious, Varric asks, “You approve of what Blondie did?”

“If I'd been caught by the templars—if I _am_ caught by the templars-”

“Death. Or tranquility.”

Varric looks away, suddenly nauseous. People are dead. His home is officially a lost cause. His family is being torn apart.

But he imagines Hawke, felled, finally, by a templar blade. He imagines her in a hangman's noose, glaring down her captors—maybe her neck breaks, maybe she struggles for long, torturous minutes as she'd denied breath.

And he remembers Karl. Imagines Hawke's gorgeous blues absent of warmth, her voice deadened of humor and rage and kindness, her clothes and hair conformist, her expressive features gone still as a frozen river.

Her spirit, murdered.

Varric never would've let it happen, but if he such power _Anders_ wouldn't've happened.

Hawke's hand slips into his. Their fingers interlace.

“I don't know.”

“Thank you for being here, Varric.”

Varric scoffs. “Where else would I be?”

Her hand tightens. She kisses his cheek, face flushed red. Her eyes, wet with unshed tears, shy not from his surprised stare.

Varric's not sure what she sees. He thinks he feels his heart calm.

“I misspoke: thanks for _everything_ , honeybun.”

  
  


3.

In some bizarre pattern, Varric again wakes with a topless woman in his bed, though, this time, it is a wooden toy mabari she cuddles, heedless of its sharp edges. He wonders what this means for Dog; he doesn't ask. It's-it's not the time.

His mind flashes to yesterday, and he shudders. Maybe there won't _be_ a time.

Through the window, the moon yet shines, piercing no shadows, but giving the room a sense of serenity all the same.

He turns over to face Hawke proper. Her jaw is gritted, brows knit. Shivers course her slender frame despite the thick, downy covers thrown over them. She is...smaller, than she was in Kirkwall.

And her face has lost its roundness, and she's eaten little of what he's offered, when before her appetite was insatiable.

Varric bites his hand to keep from crying—every minute of safe sleep is precious for her.

Time passes. Perhaps it makes him a creep, but Varric cannot take his eyes from her. When he does, she disappears. Not to the Maker's side, hopefully, just, Somewhere.

She ought not be here. She ought to leave under the cover of darkness without a word to anyone. The Inquisitor does not yet have the power to meaningfully pardon her. Bad press for the inquision, is what it would amount to.

Varric thinks he's owed some selfishness, so long as it's kept private.

“I don't want you to go,” he whispers, a private, loathsome confession. Voicing it dispels the tension drowning his lungs.

Stroud is dead. There should be grief for him; there isn't.

A whimper. Varric reaches across their divide, stroking gently down her side.

“Vare-bear?” she murmurs, squirming.

“Hush. You need sleep.”

Hawke groans, stretching into a twist that'd break him. One hand abandons her toy, seeking Varric instead. It lands awkwardly on his neck.

“I sleep all the time,” Hawke yawns.

“So, you look like a walking corpse because...?”

“Tch. Fuck you.”

“Sorry, sweetheart, you're out of my league.”

She shakes her head, burying half her face between their pillows. “Pretty sure you're supposed to say, 'I'm'.”

“I'm a businessman; we fudge facts, but we tell no lies.”

“Whatever, babe.”

Silence reigns. Neither fall back asleep.

“I'm leaving.”

“I know.” Varric pauses, chewing his tongue. “You gotta keep living, Hawke. The world's not the same without you.”

“I should be telling _you_ that, Hero.”

“Not a hero.”

Hawke snorts. Rude.

“Hate to break it to you, but you've always been mine.”

She pokes his nose, teeth catching the light as she smiles. Varric can't argue; she's wrong, and she's beautiful, and Varric has to smother the terrifying urge to kiss her.

“How are you, Varric?”

Varric shrugs, knowing she'll feel it. “These are good people. Mostly. What we're doing is practically warding off our extinction.”

“I'm sorry I've put you in this position.”

“'S not your fault. At least I'm making you look good by extension.”

“Not your fault either, Vare. But thanks for saving our asses.”

“Eh, it's a team effort.”

Hawke hums, scooching closer. “I'll find you when the dust falls, yeah?”

“Not if I find you first.”

She rises from the bed, and Varric's heart breaks. (Funny. He didn't think it still could anymore.) A velvet top slips over her head. He lights a candle, and they look to the carefully-laid out armor on the floor.

Used to be Hawke needed a second pair of hands to get it all on. Orana or Merrill, usually; Anders or Sebastian, sometimes. Isabela, once, with dire consequences for their schedule.

He didn't expect this dependency from her now, and she proves his assumption right. Hawke dresses faster than he can keep track of armor pieces, not that he cares to. Martial efficiency should be screamingly out-of-character.

She kisses his forehead. She slips out the window.

For the longest time, Varric doesn't move.

  
  


4.

He wakes to barely-stifled laughter. _Hawke's_ laughter.

She's leaned back against the headboard, knees up, his newest manuscript resting open on her thighs. A self-satisfied smirk blooms, deserved, because this is a joy he's given her, as lovely as the happiness she brings him in turn every day.

The morning chill is harsh on his bear skin, and there's a sticky patch on his leg...

_Ew_. 'Tis what happens when he indulges in Hawke's lazy cuddles before grabbing a rag and nightwear. One of them would have to wash these sheets before Orana realizes—he does _not_ want her touching them. Girl's too loyal and hardworking, honestly.

“Morning, dear.”

'Dear'. Varric remembers when her nose scrunched hearing that particular endearment.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Quite well. This character here, Gerald? Pig-headed, infuriatingly noble, loyal to family above all? Struggling to come into himself outside his overachieving father and sister?”

“Sound familiar?”

“I can't believe you changed his name to _Gerald_. Fucking _Gerald_!”

“Consider it repayment for our old talks.”

“First copy goes to him. We'll be fighting over this for years!”

Nothing motivates Carver in letter-writing like a quarrel.

His humor dissipates as he remembers what today is.

“Tag in?”

“Nah, it's your handsome face the nobles demand. Can't say I blame them; it's worthy of driving people to blood magic and ritual sacrifice.”

“If only it could drive them to play nice with our own people.”

Hawke sighs. “They'll never claim elves. _Why_ they are so threatened by an improved alienage...It'll never be enough: their power, their wealth.”

“Mm. Tiny dick syndrome.”

“Sure I can't put any of 'em out of their misery?”

“Ask me tonight.”

“Spoilsport.” Her fingers thumb through pages. “This is really good.”

“Just good? You wound me.”

She shoves his shoulder, scoffing. “There'll be an essay containing my many, many thoughts when you get home tonight. For now,” she clasps her hands, “breakfast.”

Hawke presses a sweet kiss to his lips, then somersaults out of bed with the same morning energy she'd terrorized her family with as a child.

Varric, by contrast, has to levy himself into a sitting position, minding his bad shoulder. He's getting old; a quarter of his hair's gone gray, a visual marker of the decades he's survived.

Outside their door waits a tray, laden with the sweets Hawke so craves and the fresh fruit and veggie-heavy omelets to keep their hearts from bursting—it's a delicate balancing act.

Hawke sets the tray down over his lap, kneeling close. She is a wall of warmth pressed into his side, a merciful heat source in the deep autumn weather.

“We haven't washed yet.”

She freezes, a second from grabbing a chocolate-coated strawberry, her face one of careful consideration.

Varric slaps her hand, and with a groan she concedes. He moves the tray to her vacant spot and follows her to the bath.

He cuddles up to her fast, and there's nothing sexual in their languid cleanings of one another, the passing of rag and hand a ritual of chaste intimacy despite their shared nudity. As he rinses the rag in its barrel and wipes down her long, muscled legs, she plays with his hair, eventually getting 'round to combing it and pulling the strands into his usual style. He knees to get her feet; she goes over his back. And so on. It's the sort of easy comfort that fuzzes the mind.

Hawke hops back to their tray as he heads to the wardrobe; as she snacks, she slips on the plain black jumper and crimson leggings he tosses her.

She kisses him soon as he passes back into her orbit, tasting of maple syrup. Varric licks the sticky substance off his mouth, but instead pours honey over his waffles.

“Have you talked to Thrask yet?”

“Yep,” Hawke chirps. “Merrill and Aveline came with. Unfortunately, it was yet another group of former templars hunting mages in Lowtown.”

“How woefully unsurprising.”

Hawke bites her lip, nodding.

Varric sighs, knuckles tip-tapping as he ponders. “I'll see about setting up support programs: lyrium addiction counseling, financial help, alternative vocational training.”

She brightens instantly, smile beatific. She's not his reason—not his _whole_ reason—but it gladdens his heart to ease this burden for her, specifically.

“Great idea. Even knowing examples personally, it's hard to remember there _are_ good folk among templars. Many were orphans or impoverished.” Her hand clenches the silverware. “Still. I won't hesitate to put down the next rowdy bunch I meet.”

“I appreciate the assurance; you're not allowed to die before me.”

“Who's dying?”

“We are getting old, aren't we?”

“Speak for yourself, cradle robber.”

“You were trimming nose hairs yesterday.”

“That was a dream. Obviously.”

Grinning, Varric pops a grape in his mouth. “I have Blondie as a back-up witness.”

Hawke gasps, palm placed dramatically over her heart, “You think Anders would vouch for _you_ instead of _me_?”

Varric chews on that, and on his slice of kiwi. “No. No, I don't.”

“Ah, so we're still living in the same reality, what a relief.”

He sobers in the ensuing quiet. “How is he?”

“Hm. Quiet. He's been writing to the Hero of Fereldan a lot. Talks to us, and Merrill, and the servants, but he leaves only to meet patients in the sewers.”

“Probably for the best.”

“Yeah,” Hawke chuckles. “There'd be riots in the streets if people realized how much we've lied over the years.”

“Again and again, they've proved it necessary.”

Hawke bumps her forehead against his, wholly content in their love. “I don't envy you, Viscount Tethras.”

“Hey, don't think you're getting out of this. It's a two-person gig.”

“Always.”

  
  


5.

The murmur of voices lures him gently to the waking world. Yet a fighter when needed, it has been a very long time since Varric's faced danger at home.

Those speaking aren't trying for quiet, and there is no malice in their tone. His lazy brain catches the words, but processes a mere few: something about a lizard and healing and parents.

_Parents_.

Varric's eyes crack open. Drifting in through the mouth of the blanket fort, he's hearing his daughter and Anders.

“But he's so cute! He'll be easy to take care of, and he'll take up no space-”

“I'm really not the one you have to convince. Our friend's going to be okay either way, I promise.”

“...His name's Dragon.”

Varric can't help but smile. As more conversation washes over him, he turns his attention to the lady sleeping beside him. Hawke is snoring, her neck bent at an uncomfortable angle to accommodate her tight bun and the heavy jewelry their daughter'd put on her during last night's game of dress-up.

“Marian?” he whispers.

No response.

Lips pressed to her ear, Varric tries-

Hawke darts up, sharp cheekbone colliding harshly with his jaw as he startles.

“ _Ow_.”

“Oh! Oh, damn, I'm sorry, Vare.”

“Well, I was breathing in your ear.”

She chuckles. “Yeah, that you were. What's the drama?”

“Kid's found a pet.”

Her head cocks to the side; then she, too, hears Bethany's laughter.

None of their makeshift family can argue their age anymore, but Bethany is a mere eight, an unexpected gift. They were in no place to consider children during their younger years, adopted or biological.

Hawke rubs her neck a moment, takes off her necklaces, but then she's out of the fort, Varric following.

Bethany is sat on the floor with her Uncle Anders, still dressed in the green butterfly dress she'd been wearing as she outlasted her parents in their regular “sleepover”. Except, there is now mud staining the fabric in long swathes, positioned so as to suggest she'd both knelt and laid on her belly—in mud. Mud that can be tracked to her from the backyard doors.

In Blondie's lap, a mud caricature of a lizard flicks his tongue, otherwise uncaring of the new arrivals. Healing magic can have a calming effect when there's no organs trying to escape.

“Looks like you've had an adventure. Any bruises, scratches...?”

Soon as Bethany shakes her head, Hawke takes her turn, asking, “Who's our guest here?”

“Dragon!”

“Unknown,” Anders answers with an apologetic grimace. “I'll wash him off soon as the wounds close, see if I can recognize the species. Nothing harmful, it seems.”

“What happened?”

Bethany pouts as her input's ignored by her mother and uncle. Varric sits next to her, executes a commiserative shoulder bump. Later, he'll tease her for the name. Marian's heritage is certainly showing.

“One of my cats...”

“You have to keep them indoors, Blondie. It could be them getting hurt next time.”

Anders droops, close to collapsing, like a tree caught in a hurricane. “I know,” he admits, miserable.

Bethany perks up as Hawke next looks to her.

“I admire the mess, dear heart,” she starts, gentle as a crocodile with her hatchlings, “but you and me are gonna be the ones cleaning this room today.”

“But can I keep him?”

She could at least pretend to care, so as not to receive a worse punishment. Varric will have to tell her that sometime, for when it's not her own parents she's getting judgment from.

Presently, he tells her, “You're sure not keeping the dress. Poor thing's a lost cause.”

Bethany doesn't care about that either. She glances to him while he speaks, and then her focus returns to the lizard.

A lizard's not a usual first pet, but not a bad one, and whatever their live-in roommate doesn't know about his care, Merrill surely will.

So, Varric nods to Hawke, and she melts with relief. Anders, too, recovers his smile, a precious sight to this day.

This spring, he returns to the wardens, the joining this time of his own volition. They say they have a place for him as a healer, permanently—well, outside of Blight—stationed at Weisshaupt, under a new name. Varric is...

They're going to miss him.

Maybe the lizard'll help.

  
  


+1.

The night is dark; the moon, visible during sunset, is now hidden by cloud cover. A storm is coming, a week overdue, and the very air particles are trembling from the pent-up pressure. _Dread_. Their last flooded all of Lowtown; Varric himself, accompanied by guard and family, helped fish the urchins, the thugs, the businessmen, and the strays from the waters, kittens and children and familiar faces among them. Once further damage was mitigated against, it'd taken a whole troop of mages and half the populace to make the area somewhat livable again.

Varric shudders. Bright side one: shared trauma unifies. Bright side two: jobs; though temporary, no noble could publicly complain over his digging deep into his monstrous vault to pay them. The long hours, hard labor, and occasionally grisly nature of the job meant the prideful workers instead demanded raises.

Nevertheless, it was—is—a wound to his soul. _Of course it is_. Company of kin scabs it over for a time, but then he reads the report, or visits the district, or revisits this nauseating truth: Hightown donated less than they pay to the city, annually, to maintain lordship. Such a small percentage of effectively endless wealth...

For all the world improves, it never gets better.

Without Hawke, it's far harder to bear. For every horrible thing they faced, with her by his side, the world and its problems felt theirs to conquer. People would die, as they themselves insisted, but innocents _would_ be saved, even if not the whole number, and then they would go home to rest. To wake in one another's arms to a new day of blood and heroism.

She was a natural leader; a paragon, a champion. That's not why he misses her.

He misses her laughs: the lady-like bell, the devious chuckling, the hyper giggles, the ugly snorting. The blue of her eyes: crystalline, sparkling, glacial, heated, unspeakably intense. Her spirit, her body, her mind.

Details blur. He could never forget her, but-

Time is ruthless, and his memory is failing. He cannot remember all of her at once, only pieces. Flashes.

His shoulder hurts; his back, his knees, his ankle, his hip. He has herbs to help. Somewhere.

Varric will have to wait until Orana's shift starts, or visit Merrill. The years have touched her, physically. She's had loves, and losses, and children and grandchildren still. She would adore a visit from him as much as he craves one from her, yet his body is failing and his spirit flagging.

He gets out of bed, someone else haunting his mind.

Varric leaves his quarters, walks the halls in pitch black. Her room isn't far; she's old enough to live alone, but he fears she'll stay until he's dead.

Nerves nearly stop him; she's told him _repeatedly_ to reach out anytime he needs, but she's going dragonslaying in the morn.

He cracks open the door.

Bethany is sound asleep, tangled in a nest of blankets with her lover. Marina is watching him, her horns demonic shadows in the paler darkness.

Varric smiles. His girl is a classic warrior, blind to traps and sneaking rogues. It's a relief she has someone wary near her in sleep.

He shuts the door.


End file.
